


The Urge to Knit

by the_bees_tales9229



Category: Assassin's Creed 3 Multiplayer, Assassin's Creeed 3, Connor Kenway - Fandom, Connor/Ratonhnhake:ton
Genre: Angstiest Romance ever, Big Disclaimer - Freeform, F/M, Fanfiction, Gen, Much Fanfic, Not a fluff, not mine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_bees_tales9229/pseuds/the_bees_tales9229
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year of 1790, Connor is in love with a Corsican woman named Arlette, whom he unintentionally hurt after he had wrongly accused her of betrayal for the Assassin organization. That had been four months ago, although Arlette has forgiven her, she is still cold and apathetic towards Connor and he wishes nothing but to finally reconcile their strained relationship. Can a piece of torn trousers help him mend more than his garments?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trouble at the Homestead

**Author's Note:**

> My first Assassin's Creed 3 fanfiction. Though already settled in the middle of an obviously longer plot (I plan to expand this, really!), there is provided narration of the background of each character and of the situations. It includes the Multplayer cast from AC3 (I especially love Fillan McCarthy, the Robber!)
> 
> This is not Fluff, though there are flashbacks of romantic conquests, but nothing else.
> 
> This is just my take on Connor's love interest, though this is far from a Fluffy romance, but more of an angsty, broody one, as there is unrequited love and a scorned a lover between Connor and my OC, Arlette Badeau da Ajaccio, but who is who, you'll have to read.
> 
> Btw, my OC's Corsican, as Corsica is a region with a strained relations with France during Connor's era, and I thought, yeah, she fits this timeline!
> 
> So go ahead and read this two-chapter short story.

Chapter one: Trouble at the Homestead

Nothing about getting a few combined scrapes from the remaining hired hands of the Templar Order in the South Americas, being nearly blown to pieces after a cannonball's futile attempt of wrecking the Aquila's port side and a ferocious robber from the Caribbean could dampen the whole day that Connor had set for himself—except perhaps a torn piece of garment at the inner left thigh area of his loose dark blue trousers.

He did not know how he had it, but its cause was the least of his worries; he is still inside the captain's quarters of the Aquila, to change his attire, but not a sight of a spare cloth, a needle or a thread are inside the quarters to mend his clothing. After cleaning some shallow cuts and bruises, he had decided that he would mend the torn part of his trousers back at the Manor instead. But he would have to wear them, unfortunately, as he had not thought of bringing a spare pair inside his quarters in the Aquila, which he has reminded himself he should bring for the future.

It is dark outside of the ship, though not yet the evening; Connor thought the dimness would hide the torn of the trousers he wears, though he believes that none of his crew would take notice or care if they see it and he could always explain that he is on his way home to mend it and they could go about there way, unruffled. It would be different with the colonial women; they are observant of many things. Connor had once observed a few high-class Bostonian women gossip of the littlest things and critique all the way. Though none of the Homestead women were as judgmental, it would quite become awkward if their eyes see a part of his skin, especially a part so close to his groin area. It is a relief, though, that none of the women in the Homestead go through the path towards the Aquilaexcept when there is a reason to be, and that would happen not too often.

 

Fillan McCarthy is a young Assassin recruit and was made recently so; although many within the ranks of the Assassins and allies debate the involvement of children and them being harmed in the process, Fillan nevertheless had proven his initiative nature and fortitude. However, like many young men in Boston, trouble is the recipe they usually brew. Today was the usual order for Fillan as he is brought to the Homestead doctor, Dr. Lyle White. If he had been keeping count of how many times Fillan had been admitted and who had the most counts of being admitted under Dr. White's care (but maybe the medical patrons and Dr. White himself do count how many times, but anyone's theory of the like is as good as any rumor's credibility), it could be close to more than twenty times already.

"We got McCarthy again," Godfrey's familiar boisterous voice came inside the hospice as the plump man carried Fillan. He is quickly followed by his best friend, Terry, carrying another man. Godfrey added, "And some more who got into trouble!"

And more, they are; Norris and Big Dave are helping a third injured man so large he could have passed as the legends of large Wildmen from the northern-most part of the Frontier. Two more came behind, one a young woman who had lost the strength to hold her musket, helped by Myriam and Warren. All who are brought in had cuts that are both deep and shallow in parts that would be deemed pitiful and dangerous; bruises that are shades of angry reds and purples spread all over, nearly sculpting the face unrecognizable. The largest man, the Wildman—who is known by Connor's friends as Krynn but is sometimes called by Connor by his Kanien'keha:ka name, Atasa:ta, when they speak in their native language—kept muttering even after he had been brought up to a ward that he will share with his fellow injured. Krynn continued to mutter, using both American English and Kanien'keha:ka, but one name kept popping up: Connor.

"What vileness has happened, Krynn?" Myriam spoke to comfort the five victims.

"Was it Fillan again?" Terry carelessly asks out of the blue after settling Duncan Little, the man he carried, to a bed next to the young woman with the musket, Emily Burke.

Godfrey sharply elbowed his friend in the ribs. "Don't go pointin' fingers yet, Terry, even though we 'ave the same thought!"

"No, no!" Krynn muttered louder, stretching a hand. "The whole attack was planned. We were ambushed! They knew we carried the necessary supplies for the Assassins—" He stopped speaking as pain increased on the left side of his torso. Dr. White and his medical patrons entered the room, taking authority of the situation at hand.

"All of you must leave, now," Dr. White dictated as he began to order the patrons to clean their hands. "I'll start with Krynn. The gash on his chest is angry. I will need more antiseptic to clean it…"

His voice becomes muffled as one of the patrons closes the door behind him after ushering Godfrey, Terry and the rest outside of the ward. They decided to wait at the parlor, although Warren decided to leave and go home. One last patron served them tea and biscuits while they waited, shuffling in their seats in silence as the grieving sounds of moaning and wailing came from either Duncan or Emily combined with the tinkling of Dr. White's tools and the other patrons' voices. Myriam's hand curled around Norris', concern written all over her face; Norris kissed the top of her forehead to soothe her. Godfrey twiddled with his hands and would occasionally wring them to shake his discomfort. Terry, meanwhile, distracted himself with the biscuits. Big Dave took a nap on the other couch, snoring peacefully.

Thirty minutes passed and suddenly, the door to the ward where Dr. White and the patrons worked flung open; one of the patrons called for the last patron from the kitchen for more assistance.

"I'll be right there," the remaining patron said as she rushed in, bringing with her gloves and a new apron. A few minutes later, one of the patrons rushed out of the door and went to the parlor, breathless. He took his bloodied apron away and informed them that they are short of hands that would help in cleaning the remaining wounds and to sew the open flesh.

"I could be of assistance," Big Dave, who awoke minutes before, stood up from the couch and went inside the ward.

Myriam spoke, "I could bring Ellen or Arlette here, to help with sewing." The patron agreed and pecked Norris' cheek before she left.

"How is everyone faring?" Norris asked nervously.

The patron shook his head in gloom. "Krynn and Clipper had taken the heaviest beating. Krynn appeared to have been slashed with the blade of a musket across his chest. It was deep, but fortunately it missed the most delicate organs inside, though narrowly. Clipper took more beatings on his torso and a bullet wound on one thigh. It is a miracle all of them are still breathing, though it would be months or perhaps a whole year for them to come back, though knowing that they are warriors, perhaps their hide would become tougher after this ordeal."

Godfrey shook his head in dismay after hearing the news. "Poor lads, poor Emily."

"Who would do such things?" Terry said as he brought down the half-eaten biscuit on the plate, having lost his appetite.

The patron continued. "Fillan is the only one awake. He believes it is important that Connor would know what had happened."

Norris nodded urgently. "I should go tell him right away."

With that, Norris left the hospice and went straight for Connor in his manor.

 

Closing the door behind him, he turned the lock on the door and went to the parlor on the left, recalling he had arranged his sewing materials inside a cupboard. He proceeded to pull off his boots and padding, and then loosened his torn trousers; he was too busy with the task at hand that he had only heard the familiar footsteps of the manor's new resident, Jenny Kenway.

"Connor, are you back—" She cuts her question as she realizes that her nephew had taken off his lower clothes and yelped in shock, covering her eyes. " _Goodness gracious, Connor, I am an OLD WOMAN! This is NOT the place to undress_ …"

As her flurry of scolding and curses flew out of her mouth, Connor hastily puts back the torn trousers and tried to hide a laughter. He was suddenly like a child, being told by his mother or Achilles… Oh, those days of innocent, unworldliness and thoughtlessness of his youth… It was sentimental, really, as Jenny continued her scolding.

"The nerve of men!" Jenny complained, a single vein showing at her thin neck. "You truly have the unruly, defiant Kenway in you! My Lord, why do you suddenly remind me of my own father and his improper behavior—"

"Ms. Kenway, please," Connor approached her with a polite smile on his face and soothed her, massaging her arms up and down. "I did not mean to be rude. I thought myself the only one awake at this hour. I was looking for my sewing materials—"

"With your loose undergarments?" Jenny questioned with a cock of an eyebrow and the roundest eyes, as if she had heard the most scandalous, outrageous piece of news.

"I have torn my clothing, you see," Connor showed her the torn trousers to her and she studied it with her own hands. "I was afraid I might further damage it by wearing anymore so I decided to shed it off. I thought you have gone to bed early as the manor was silent when I arrived."

Jenny seemed to have calmed as she saw the logic in his explanation. "Well, I apologize for suddenly bursting like an angered hen." She smiled apologetically and patted his shoulder. "I'm making us hot tea. You go on ahead with your garments." Turning to leave, Connor acknowledged that he would love to join her in the dining hall later.

Continuing his search, but this time with his trousers on and barefoot, he rifled through the contents of the cupboards and its drawers for the familiar small basket of sewing materials when a frantic rap at the door interrupted him. Familiar, urgent voices called his name, and Connor became tense. He quickly went to the door and pulled it open. He was greeted by a breathless Norris and a concerned Myriam; behind them was Corrine the innkeeper, Ellen and her daughter, carrying what looked like their own sewing materials, and—to Connor's stupefied expression—Arlette. She stood beside Ellen's daughter, holding a basket of Ellen's sewing tools, her expression passive. She averted his gaze with her eyes, her head slightly cocked upward, defiant. Her lips—those delicate pink lips—formed a subtle scowl, obviously not wanting to be here. Her abdomen was clearly plump, a sign of their only night together almost four months ago. Despite her sour expression and the way she was trying to hide her unenthusiasm being a mere five feet away from Connor, her beauty left him distracted as Norris spoke to him; he clamped a hand on Connor's shoulder, which prompted him to stare at Norris' hand.

"Oh sorry," Norris immediately pulled his hand back, remembering that touching Connor was considered rude, as it was the manners of the Kanien'keha:ka. "I did not mean to touch your shoulder—"

"No, it is okay Norris," Connor grinned at him, returning the friendly gesture Norris made by clapping his own hand on his shoulder. "We have known each other for a long time. We are not strangers."

Norris chuckled. "Well, I did that because, well, your eyes seem to be somewhere else, so I was merely trying to get your attention."

Myriam nodded in agreement, to which Connor replied an "oh", blinking hard, as he realized that he had ogled at Arlette and had briefly diminished his attention to the others. _How did I suddenly lose my focus? And for the briefest of moments_ …

"Anyway, what news do you wish to bring to me?" Connor asked, trying to get back to the subject at hand. "You all sounded urgent."

Myriam spoke, concern written all over her face once again. "It's Fillan and the others. We found them injured halfway back here at the Homestead! They spoke of an ambush—"

It was all he needed to hear, Connor's expression hard. "Are they all at Dr. White's?"

"Yes," Myriam answered, "I went to get Ellen and her daughter, Arlette and Corrine were passing by, so I told of the situation and they have agreed to help the medical patrons to sewing the wounded flesh. Norris was going to alert you and we found each other halfway, so here we are."

Connor nodded. "I will see you all at the hospice. I will gather some materials first to help the injured."

The women left, but Norris offered to stay behind to wait for Connor. Letting in Norris, Connor recalled Ellen's daughter giggling behind her hand, her eyes on Connor, but not on his face; her gaze had been somewhere on the ground or on his feet…

Deciding it was nothing important, he gathered the medicinal herbs he had concocted and stored in the kitchen cupboards and placed it on a small pack. He hoped the medicine would prove not only useful but to rapidly improve his comrades. He told Jenny of the situation as he entered the kitchen, with Norris in tow. He greeted her politely and she remarked how handsome he was, prompting a blush to the shy Norris. Connor went upstairs to change his clothes, deciding that his trousers would have to wait. After fastening a new pair of boots, he changed his mind about his trousers and folded it neatly inside his pack. He thought that he could borrow from Ellen some sewing materials to mend and knew she wouldn't mind. Another concern crossed his mind: Arlette. She would be there, at the hospice; he knew he would not be able to avoid her, she wouldn't be with him. He sighed, praying to the spirits that he could be strong enough to face her simmering expression… and her disarming beauty.

"I will leave now, Ms. Kenway," Connor said as Norris opens the door.

Jenny waved goodbye as Norris turned and left the manor; Connor followed suit, but was briefly stopped by Jenny. Concerned, he let the older woman pull him aside and he lowered his head slightly as she gestured that she would whisper something.

"I saw your lover," she said, her voice quite giddy and girlish despite her age. Connor's face flushed red and he averted the old woman's smiling face. "She was lovely, but she looked quite tired."

"I do not wish to talk about Arlette," Connor interjected gently, shaking his head.

"But what will you do?" Jenny asked him, concerned. Although she would tease him of his unrequited affection, she knew the reason why Connor and Arlette had been…unresponsive with one another for almost four months now and she took their relationship seriously. "Do you plan to apologize?"

Connor could only stare back, a nagging emotion tugging at his heart. He didn't know if it is guilt or pain or regret, or perhaps all of them. He stuttered as he tried to explain, but clamped his mouth shut in defeat. Jenny placed an encouraging hand on his face and smiled. "You'll think of something."

Connor nodded and said goodbye to her, following Norris to the hospice.

"Say, Connor," Norris began as they walked towards the hospice. "I don't know how to begin this—well, never mind, Connor."

"What is it?" He asked, curiosity peaking.

"I…well, it was not amusing to me, but… Ellen's kid saw that your trousers were in disrepair around your, um, leg and I tried to scold her, but she stopped immediately…"

Connor's face was hot again. So that was the reason she was giggling. She saw…

"I had torn my pair of trousers but the cause of it eludes me. I plan to mend it and had never expected to gain unwanted attention from young women."

They both chuckled, Norris being louder. "Oh, but Connor, such is a great treasure to attract some young women!"

Connor shook his head, grinning. "I hope not the way I did with the torn clothing."

Norris added light-heartedly. "Sometimes, Connor, women love a little tease of our masculine flesh!"

They continued to chuckle and converse light-heartedly; Connor did more of the listening as Norris shared his youthful days of flirting with girls and some French and America lewd jokes, some of which he learned from Myriam. It was all the light-hearted distraction he needed, as he tried not to think about Arlette.

 

The atmosphere inside the hospice was calmer as Myriam and the other women helped Dr. White and the patrons with the patients. Godfrey and Terry went up and left after Dr. White thanked them of their help. Big Dave stayed behind to help the women and the patrons; he talked with Krynn, who had awoken from a pain in his chest and he and another patron gave him water to drink. Finn was awake from the entire medical ordeal. He was used to the procedure. But what kept him awake was the fact that he needed to tell Connor the important matter—the cause of their ambush.

Fillan owed a great deal of his life thanks to Connor. Not only was he serving the Assassin organization but he worked part-time as delivery boy and drove a cart to deliver the exporting Homestead supplies to the city. He lived at Connor's Manor as well, a large red house, and inside a small but comfortable room at the east end of the house; it was an honor to be there and a better change than living from place to place, usually nowhere. Before, he only had his thieving skills, little money and the ragged clothes on his back.

But somehow, he was thankful for his evil sister for selling him off and leaving him as a slave; if it weren't for her, he would never have met the Assassins and Connor, who leads them. He had only been recruited a month ago despite how Fillan had met them a year ago. He always answered to Connor or Ms. Jenny Kenway of any sort of information, whether it was of trivial, Homestead matter or the most significant or Templar-related. Although he became friends with a lot of the Assassins, he knew he was treated like a child amongst them, despite being seventeen of age, already a young man. But Connor treated him an equal and had commented how he saw the same spirit of the youth of the Haudenosaunee confederation, which Fillan took greatly as he had indeed met a lot of them and owed them as well. He remembered a young woman named Alsoomse and learned some of her native words. Krynn was similar to Connor, but acted more like an elder brother he never had, while Ms. Jenny Kenway the grandmother he would never meet.

Emily Burke, a tomboy who is never without two muskets and a smug smile, reminded him of his sister, though he knew the big difference was that she cared more and would care until her dying breath. Fillan would never understand his sister, Gillian, of her diminished love and betrayal. He slumps his head back and lets it sink slowly against the soft pillow, relaxing, trying not to recall the time she sold him for a can of beans.

"How are we feeling, Fillan?" The familiar feminine French accent floated inside the ward and he sees Arlette, smiling upon him. She brought in a tray laden with a sewing kit, a white ceramic pitcher of water and an empty drinking glass.

Fillan smiled back. "Alright, miss." Fillan caught a glimpse of her pregnancy and reached a hand to gently touch the firm but round lower abdomen. She chuckled at his gesture. She said, "Still a few more months before we'd know what the baby is, though Dr. White and a midwife in Lexington said it is a girl."

"She'd have pretty red hair," Fillan complimented.

"Or blonde, like my brother," she added and became quiet. Fillan knew she didn't mean to add anymore of the baby's father's hair…

She brought down the tray and sat next to his bed. "There is one last stitching we need to make."

Fillan sighs exasperatedly. He had known pain for the longest time, but it never meant he could always bear it. "Alright, I'll bear it all. I just want this to be over."

Arlette nods and pulls the sleeves back gently to reveal a clean but angry open wound. "This will only take a while, I promise."

"So long as a pretty lady does it," Fillan complimented slyly. "I'll be fine."

Arlette chuckles at his effort and begins the procedure. The needle enters his flesh once again and Fillan huffs, trying to bear the sting.

"Ms. Arlette?" Fillan tentatively asked.

"Hm?"

"Can you…argh! Oh, I swear, I will never get used to stitching…Will you sing that French song you sang before?"

Arlette glanced at him with a smile and, without another word, began singing:

"La tête dans mes airs,  
Des airs en solitaire,  
Je me sentais si forte,  
Sûre de moi sur les toits… de Paris.

A vélo j'me rappelle  
J'dévalais les ruelles,  
J'étais immortelle,  
Car tu m'as donné des ailes… pour la vie

Paris ne ris pas,  
Mais j'ai quelque chose à te dire,  
C'est toi mon papa,  
Je suis née dans tes bras

Et j'ai un sacré cœur, comme toi …"*

Fillan's nerves slowly dissipated and focused on the French lullaby instead. He didn't know French, but he thought it sounded so soft and warm in his ears, like the wind caressing his mind and soul, lulling him to sleep…

Then, outside the ward, Connor's concerned voice shook Fillan out of his half-nap and slightly sat up from his bed.

"Careful," Arlette scolded, "I could have accidentally yanked your arm with the needle still inside your skin!"

"Sorry, I needed to be awake," Fillan apologized, "I was waiting for Connor to tell him—ah!"

At the mention of his name, Arlette forcefully pushed Fillan's arm down to continue her sewing, her face much more passive and her usually, slightly open pink lips tightened into a hard line. Fillan clamped his mouth immediately and fell silent; he knew of the strained relationship (if there is still any) between her and Connor. If only he had not been there to see how it all happened… But the thing is he did. He hoped that when Connor enters the room, the atmosphere would not be stiff. Fillan is not here for such emotional tides.

"Fillan and the rest are over there," came Dr. White's voice, pointing to the ward ahead.

"Thank you," Connor spoke politely as he entered he ward.

This is it. Fillan prepared for the worst. "Connor!" His voice was a bit high-pitched than usual—an accident on his part. Though he hoped that Arlette or Connor noticed it as awkward discomfort and hoping it was just excitement—or his annoyance of the stinging pain of a needle going through his skin. Connor approached him and circled his bed to be on his right side, opposite of where Arlette was minding Fillan's left arm. So far, so good, Fillan thought as Connor pulled a chair and sat beside him to begin the conversation.

"What happened, Fillan?"

"An ambush in the frontier," Fillan started immediately. "They were disguised as a group of the Continental Army as part of the new civil guards." Then Fillan's voice grew fearful. "But they were led by that hunter with a shank as a blade. He looked wilder than any native man I've seen."

Connor's eyebrows furrowed, his lips a tight line. "They call him the Coyote Man. He lives with the Sioux in the western part of this world. The Templars hold had gone westward, although it is most possible that they had power there long ago, the same time as Achilles' own Assassin group had, but became more subversive when the American Revolution began and decided to give their support eastward. However, the Templars' new goal still eludes us and I am afraid our Brotherhood may have included more moles."

Fillan nodded, drinking everything Connor said. He could see Connor was talking more to himself when he mentioned the last sentence. Fillan was no stranger to betrayal, but a traitor within friends and family was too much to bear. Fillan suddenly remembered Connor's rage when he was led to believe that Arlette was the mole by the real mole himself, a man named August Barkwith, a mere recruit at the time and a kind young man—or so at least, for his own gain.

With the help of Stephane Chapheau and Dobby Carter, they were able to trace Barkwith's background: apparently a younger brother of one of the hired hands of Thomas Hickey before, he fell to poverty when his brother's illegal occupation went to a halt. August and the remaining few tried to begin again, but he decided to become a double agent for the Templars as a means to regain financial ground and vengeance. August got what he deserved when Arlette's brother shot him in the leg, crippling him, though he managed to get away with his cronies and his fate with a failed plan are left for the Templars to ponder on his future use.

He planted false evidence of Arlette's treachery, as she was new and was closer to Connor—the man who killed Hickey—that she was sending letters to hired sailing mercenaries to attack the Aquila and its trade ships' usual route. After finding out Arlette's "allegiance", Connor flew into a rage and poor Arlette—Fillan sighed; he didn't want to remember what strained the two lovers' relationship, especially now they are here beside him in opposite ends; it would be much less appealing if Arlette would retort or comment sarcastically and Connor, being a gentleman with a temper, would humbly bite (possibly literally) his tongue. But Arlette continued to be silently polite and Connor stealing glimpses at her downcast but passive-aggressive face.

Fillan continued, not liking the silence at all. "This Coyote Man was insane… but he knew what he was after. He meant to burn the two carriages to destroy and hinder the supplies coming here in our base. He and his troops meant to injure us as a message, although I suspected he wanted Krynn's head. I knew there was bad blood between them."

Arlette had finished her sewing and arranged the sleeve. "It is done." She declares cheerfully; she stands up and leaves the room, along with her tray. "I'll leave you two now."

With that, she pulls the door to a close without even looking back at either Connor or Fillan. Fillan exhales another sigh, relieved that the worst did not come. Emily stirred in her bed but did not wake up from her slumber. The rest of the injured: Clipper Wilkinson, Duncan Little and Krynn still lie unconscious, though Krynn had been awake before for a glass of water to quench a thirst, but soon passed out immediately.

Fillan continued his story. "Before I joined the group to help in escorting the carriages, I have been briefly interrogated by an officer in Lexington and asked where I would be taking it. I told him the truth as I thought he was only doing his duty. Then, before we embarked back to the Homestead I saw the same officer dispatching a man to head towards the frontier quickly. I thought it was unrelated, but I was wrong. I saw the same man—who turned out to be a mercenary—amongst the Bluecoats, who pretended to be a group of patrollers in the frontier. They asked us for inspection midway towards the Homestead, then the Coyote Man attacked Krynn from above the trees, and hell broke loose."

Connor sighs, a hint of weariness and frustration. Fillan felt inferior when he took the hint and added, "I should have warned the others. We barely escaped. Our chances could've doubled if I had done something to prevent it all!"

"Fillan, calm down, it's all right." Connor reassured as he patted his shoulder and smiled warmly. Connor sensed that Fillan was blaming himself for what had happened, which was the last thing Connor wanted to see. "You and the others fought valiantly. And because of the seriousness of the injuries, I cannot let you and the others fight until you have recovered and I find the root of the problems. The supplies that we have bought and are personally bringing to our base of operations will come and I will see to it myself. For now, all of you rest easy. Tomorrow I will see you all here again to make sure you are all well and investigate this matter." He paused, his eyes slowly shifting from Fillan to the floor. "Me and Ms. Jenny had been talking about something… about the base of operations for the Assassins."

Fillan's eyes narrowed, sitting up much more. "What about it? Are you thinking of expanding?"

"Moving," Connor said with his tone much more passive. "We must move our base of operations. Being here in the Homestead, near civilians who work hard for a life of peace and prosperity, meant that violence and battles should not happen in this sanctuary."

Fillan's eyes grew wider. His feelings were suddenly like being tossed and drowned within angry tidal waves, but he could not know what he was truly feeling as Connor told him this. "Do the others share your idea?"

"I have talked to Krynn and Duncan and Dobby about this," Connor said. "When all of you have recovered, I wish to hold a meeting in the Manor with all of you present. I will send word when and I hope that a matter would be settled about our place."

Fillan's heart suddenly felt heavier. "What about…where I…will I leave the Manor, too?"

Connor's face lightened into a smile and chuckled. "No, Fillan. You can live with us as long as you like."

Fillan grinned, relieved. "I know you wouldn't kick me out."

They talked, but the conversation was lighter and it relieved them of the day's whole ordeal. Connor laughed and his laughter must have woken up the other unconscious patients inside the ward that they joined in. Dr. White, whose ears have sharpened over the years to hear for any telltale signs inside the chest of any heart problems, came to see them inside and became stern to Connor for disturbing the rest of the patients.

Emily reasoned with the doctor about how good it is to have a bit of a laugh once in a while; however, Dr. White won after a few more minutes of lewd jokes concerning female medical patrons and their male patients and shooed Connor out of the ward; but he was not annoyed at Connor as he only understood some of the jokes and most were tavern humors or wordplays, which actually only gave Connor a bad taste and a confused expression. Dr. White was especially flabbergasted at Krynn's knowledge about prostitute clothing (and how to take each off of the prostitute properly!) and that somehow didn't do good for Dr. White's temperament.

Connor was relieved to follow Dr. White out of the ward as the laughter died down from the ward.

"I apologize," Connor humbly said, his hands pressed together in front of him in a polite manner. "It was only Fillan and I who were conversing lightly until the rest woke from my loud laugh."

Dr. White waved his hands, wanting to hear not of it. "Connor, those people had had a rough day and laughter may be the only medicine that they can provide for themselves, but I do not have to administer. It was no harm done, though that Duncan Little, with his priest jokes and Krynn with his knowledge of whores—ah, not my type of humor, really."

"I wish to speak to you," Connor said, his tone serious. "I wish to check on them tomorrow. Here—" Connor handed Dr. White a jar of home-brewed medicinal herbs he brought with him. "This is to help with the bruises, especially for Clipper. These help lessen the swelling. The instructions are written on the jar."

Dr. White peered at it with an interested glee on his face. "Why, Connor, I thank you. This will truly help them. As for tomorrow, I will expect you, then."

Dr. White turned to leave and retire above his hospice, but was stopped by Connor. "One last thing, I was wondering if Ellen had already left the hospice…?"

"No, no, no," Dr. White said and pointed above the ceiling. "I told them they can stay for a while with the patrons. They are in the dining area above this floor. If you wish to join us above, you can."

"I merely need to ask Ellen something," Connor said and followed Dr. White to the stairs.

Getting to another room on the second floor, he saw Ellen, her daughter Maria, Norris, Myriam, Corrine, the medical patrons and—sitting near a closed balcony as she talked to another patron—Arlette, her hands poised on top of her round belly, smiling, her dark blue eyes twinkling with the conversation she held. Connor's heart ached as he stared at her. He longed for her, but he knew she would not satisfy him again, not with what he had done…

"Connor!" Norris' voice floated above the voices of chattering people and everyone immediately greeted him in. It took a lot of willpower to avoid glancing up to see if Arlette would stand up from her seat and greet him like the others or would she just sit there and look at him with the coldest stare he had seen before... But he caught a glimpse of her and there, she sat, one hand still on her belly but the other waved in a curt hello and a small grin. He politely waved back and smiled before being pulled to a full-blown conversation with the others.

"Please," Connor pleaded as Myriam suddenly pulled a glass of wine for him. They had been talking for minutes now, and Connor was trying to pull a gentler way of getting out of the conversation. "I am here to see Ellen. I need to borrow her sewing supply for a moment. I did not mean to prolong my presence and intervene in your joyful conversations!"

"Oh come on, now, Mr. Connor!" A patron suddenly bursts. "Nobody leaves until one participates in a drinking game!"

And with that, Connor was engulfed in a casual game of drinking liquor just so he could convince Ellen that he had celebrated with them. Although at first he refused, he relented when their own laughter suddenly became infectious and he soon couldn't resist them. Even with Arlette staring at him, who was being polite and stayed somewhere at the back of the crowd, Connor gathered his wits and participated in one drinking game. He lost, even though he was drinking from a clear glass goblet the finest red wine he had tasted while his opponent drank a thick mug full of beer.

"Alright, Connor!" Ellen exclaimed. "You convinced me! You can borrow my supplies!"

"Thank you," Connor gave her a small, polite bow and took the sewing basket she had. "I will sew my trousers elsewhere, lest this crowd might influence me with more liquor!"

Ellen chuckled. Then Norris' voice was suddenly louder than before. "Look, Connor is as red as a cherry! And that was just one goblet!"

The whole room burst into laughter. Connor shook his head, grinning. He knew he is easily intoxicated. Then, at the back of the crowd, sitting with her hands still on her round belly, Arlette gave him a smile.

Connor caught his own breath. They stared at one another, the presence of the rambunctious crowd suddenly gone and they only have their eyes for each other. Connor thought she looked radiant and the roundness of her four-month old pregnancy made her look more womanly, more fertile, more captivating. Then she slowly let go of her cheeks and her smile disappeared. Her blue eyes went down and stared at the floor, then wistfully out the balcony, staring at the trees and stars. And Connor knew that was his cue to leave.

 


	2. Torn and Unmendable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the year of 1790, Connor is in love with a Corsican woman named Arlette, whom he unintentionally hurt after he had wrongly accused her of betrayal for the Assassin organization. That had been four months ago, although Arlette has forgiven her, she is still cold and apathetic towards Connor and he wishes nothing but to finally reconcile their strained relationship. Can a piece of torn trousers help him mend more than his garments?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some erotic passages and flashbacks, though it isn't as graphic. However, if you can't handle the heat, well...
> 
> XD
> 
> Another note: Another edit done! Since I was wrong the first time with the time table for this story, I edited it again.
> 
> Apart from those, everything is still the same. I just wanted the story as realistic as possible.

Chapter two: Torn and Unmendable

 

Connor found the small kitchen near the parlor downstairs empty and decided he would fix his trousers there instead. He pulled a chair nearby but accidentally bumped the table and bruised his hip. He sighed; he never should have relented to his friends' influences in drinking the wine.  _Now, I can't sew my own trousers._

He carefully settled himself in the chair, not wanting anymore accidents as he is aware of the glassware and sharp knives around the kitchen. Opening the basket, he found a needle and a dark blue thread; sharpening the end of the thread, he carefully tried to put through the thread inside the needle's head, but failed. His eyes were becoming unfocused and his hands heavier. He sighed in frustration and put his hands on his lap, accidentally puncturing his new trousers and pierced his leg. He yelped, as he realized what he had done and settled the needle and thread on the table.

He checked the small puncture he made on his trousers and saw a small dot of a wound he caused on himself. It was not serious and shrugged it off as the onset symptoms of his intoxicated state.  _So I cannot sew my trousers… but if I leave for the Manor, I could sleep off my drunkenness, though my travelling back to the Manor is questionable at my state. How could I have agreed to drink a full goblet of wine?_

He rested his head on his hand as the intoxication turned into a rogue wind inside his system, muddling some thoughts and giving him a headache in the back. Connor knew he was not used to drinking liquor. Well, he would politely take some at celebrations, albeit a small amount, something that could be sipped quickly, as he prided himself in being alert all the time.  _Oh, this is just one night. I will not let this happen again,_ he thought to himself reassuringly. This was only for one night, to be happy after a long day of work, let off some steam as they say.

And there Connor sat as he patiently waited for his soberness to come back. He glanced at the grandfather clock across the kitchen to the parlor and saw it was eleven and twenty minutes in the evening.  _Time has flown once again._

He sat straight, thinking perhaps the worst flow of the wine inside his head is gone and spreads his torn trousers on the table and tries to insert the thread inside the needle again.

"Connor?" A soft female voice called his name and he glanced to see Arlette across him, looking bewildered.

Connor suddenly stopped breathing or perhaps there was no air inside the kitchen after all as he stared at her, his emotions mixing with the heat of the wine, making him absolutely warmer all over his body. "Arlette!" His voice squeaked in an unusual manner, knowing this is the work of the liquor and his own heart. His lips twitched unconsciously into a smile, glad to see a beautiful female in front of him; he knew his own smile looked awkward and wished his own muscles would relax into a passive, polite face instead. However, she gave him a sheepish grin as well, her hands clasped together in front of her round abdomen.

"I thought you have left," she told him, "I was surprised you are in the kitchen."

Connor stuttered. "Uh, I-I was merely trying to sew my torn trousers… while I waited for the wine's influence to finally abate."

"Ah, I see," Arlette nods her head, looking at the trousers spread across the kitchen table.

"I will not be long," Connor adds, "I have been misusing Dr. White's hospitality for far too long."

"So are his medical nurses and the others who brought the injured here, including Dr. White," Arlette retorts in her matter-of-fact tone. "But if you wish to finish up before Dr. White finds you here and Norris pulls you to a game of Fanorona with ale at the side, I will sew the trousers for you."

She approached him in quick steps, her arms outstretched to reach the needle in his hand; her movements froze him in place as she got closer to him. His hand unconsciously gave the needle to her and his eyes—his whole body, rather—only focused on her.

He could see just how small she was compared to him. Her head only reached the lower part of his chest and he could see the topmost part of her head: thick, dark red hair, as dark as the red wine he drank earlier; she smelled of fruits, vegetables, wood and fire, and that dark, sweet substance the colonials had brought with them—chocolate, it was—as she worked as one of the cooks and bakers in a small restaurant in Lexington. Her skin was fair, like the rest of the colonial women, yet it had been browned and pinked by the sun, and her face was pink with freckles across her cheeks, contrasting the dark blue of her eyes; she wore her peasant dresses off-shouldered and without a bonnet or an umbrella, preferring the sun and today was not different, except that garment was looser to provide for the four-month old child she carries. Connor's gaze lowered as he followed her hands as she put through the dark blue thread in the needle's head. He noticed her dress was not pink, though more like a fading orange, or perhaps…

"Peach," Connor unconsciously spoke to himself as his eyes rested on her chest and her protruding abdomen.

Arlette glanced at him with a quizzical expression. "Pardon me?"

Connor immediately tried to correct himself and stammered at his own words. "Uh, ah, Arlette, what, I-I, I mean to say is, I was merely wondering," his tone was unusually higher, pretending to be interested with a topic in mind. "I was wondering about your dress, I mean, its color… I don't know what it is."

Arlette was silent, her eyes on his as she searched within him, trying to know his goal. Connor's cheeks flushed as he saw her intense gaze, the same gaze she gave him before she would kiss him—

"Orange," she said absentmindedly, snapping Connor back to reality.

"Oh, of course," he blinked furiously and suddenly, his lips twitched into a smile again and he couldn't stop.  _I have to stop doing this,_ he thought to himself.

They stood there, staring, their bodies a mere three inches away; suddenly aware of their proximity from each other, Arlette cast her eyes down and stepped back, and said in a passive tone, "I'll sew your trousers now."

Connor felt his heart deflate as he nodded at her and handed the trousers. She sat across him as she set to work, her hands veined yet soft, fluidly and carefully putting through the needle on the torn. From his view, Connor had only realized now how big the gash was on his trousers and it made him embarrassed if he had only continued to wear the trousers towards the Manor and Arlette would have seen his thigh…

 _But she has seen me naked before,_ he thought to himself, trying to reassure himself as a pink flush spread across his face and he decided to turn away from her, just in case she catches him pink in the face and he wouldn't want her eyes being keen again or perhaps creating a thought inside her of what he had been thinking.

Yet his thoughts continued to stray back as he took a sideway glance on her hands again, hard at work on his trousers; he was soon imagining those same hands on him while he wore the torn trousers; she would be standing in front of him, her face sweet and smiling, unlike the cold, impassive expression she wore around him now; they would kiss passionately, their arms slowly twining in each other's shoulders, her hands on his black hair and his hands on her long red hair, trailing past behind her waist. She would kiss his upper lip while he on her lower lip, and they would slowly exchange places, loving the light, wet feeling of her warm mouth, creating a tingling sensation all around his mouth as she opened her mouth to invite him in, inside her sweet mouth and taste her pink, bittersweet tongue…

Connor blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to erase the image of their first kiss, slightly altered with him wearing a pair of unrepaired trousers.  _How could I be thinking such lewd a thought?_

She was an outspoken woman, though unlike her fellow coquettish upper-middle class women, she spoke with honesty and with a firmness of a leader, and topics such as politics, slavery to philosophies are her favourite subjects; and because of her outspokenness, she had confessed of her emotions towards him when he took her to the Aquila to assist her of her search of her friend. He suspected that she had thought of her words a great deal but naturally told them to him and Connor was taken immediately.

It did help, of course, that he had liked her back; countless talks and advices coming from Norris helped his nerves and to know how to treat a woman better. Norris was helpful, as he was returning everything Connor had done to help him with his courtship with Myriam. But when she confessed first, Connor thought it would be harder now to try and best her confession; so, the same day after their lead on her friend became only a part-way success, he took the Aquila on the port of Louisiana and told the crew that they would have a whole night's rest there. Faulkner, the wise sea dog with a background full of raunchy conquests himself, understood Connor's intentions and left him with Arlette.

Connor first took her to see Aveline, as the colony of Louisiana and its neighboring colonies are frequented with more slave traders, as Arlette's friend had been abducted to become a slave. A few talks and important details later, Aveline took them to see a parade, traditional and celebrated by everyone of status; it was then, after Aveline suspiciously decided to leave them alone and winks knowingly at Connor, that Connor realized she could tell of his affections for Arlette as well.

On that day, she wore a peasant's clothing, similar to the conservative women of a distinct culture in New York; but Connor thought that any colonial female's clothes would never best anything that was already beautiful—which was the same thought that the men expressed on the streets of Louisiana and many of them were the lecherous type Connor dreaded and hated. Arlette ignored their "lame seducing", as she called it and soon pestered him of where they were supposed to go. Thanks to Faulkner, he managed to locate a small but quaint inn and there he took her to dinner, their first night together as a soon to be couple…

From there, after they were given a beautiful room with a balcony overlooking a part of the enthusiastic city, the river and the damp forest, illuminated by glowing, small insects, Connor gave her his warmest embrace; being a hot-blooded Corsican, Arlette read his intentions and he began his love confession to her; their kiss soon trailed behind after that, and then soon their clothes trailed behind them, which led to a more erotic deed, their bodies twined in between the sheets; then they would be twined on the floor with the sheets thrown in their pile of clothes; her hands would be on his face as if sculpting the face of the ideal man she had only dreamed, her expression glazed with fiery passion and insatiable lust and his hands would be on her hips, his mouth open, hungry but patient, like a wolf on a prey. His hands glided down, travelling downwards to her pooling heat…

_STOP!_

Connor mentally pulled himself out of a memory, a memory of them in the inn that Spring in Louisiana. It made his heart pound and it was dangerous! He was afraid that if his body reacted to the memory, then Arlette would see—

"It is done," she said cheerfully, snapping Connor of his mental self-checking. She pulled the newly repaired trousers from the table and presented it to Connor, but soon held it back. "I should fold it first."

"Oh, there is no need," Connor reassured as he reached out to the quickly folded trousers. He caught a glimpse of his crotch and thought, to his view, it looked its normal state. He was glad he had not revealed of his weak willpower for her. He had hoped that when he had been waiting for her as he sat, she had not noticed the small movements that he may had done while he thought of her bare breasts and her lips kissing his body over and over again until she would reach downward, to his once inexperienced maleness—

"I must leave," Connor suddenly told her before her mouth could form any word she was going to say. "I thank you to what you have done! I am grateful, Arlette—" and he politely took her hand and pecked it lightly and quickly and immediately put it down to her side— "and I will return this favour with my own, I promise!"

"Connor!" Arlette intervened before he could leave, "the trousers you wear look different than before!"

Connor looked back at her and stared down to his light brown breeches—to see a tiny splotch of his blood all over the hole he had accidentally punctured. "Arlette, it is nothing," he consoles her, "I had accidentally wound myself when I was still too heavily intoxicated by the wine. I'm sure it will wash off quickly after I clean it tomorrow."

"Ah," she says, nodding, her worry abating. In fact, her eyes darted everywhere: from his face, to the floor, to the kitchen table, to his face again then to her hands clasped on her belly. Connor could see that she was trying to eat her worried actions earlier—and perhaps her kindness to sew the trousers for him—and read her expression as regret, though she hid it with a polite half-grin.

Arlette kept her dark blue eyes downcast, though her face inclined upward, her pink lips are in a tight line. Although she wore a mask of cold impassiveness and forced politeness, he could see that there is indeed an emotion—or emotions—that would hit him like a tidal wave, a wave so unforgiving, it would rip his heart out and break him apart; though, if that was what it took to have Arlette open herself up again, instead of caging it all in, instead of caging the true emotions she held for months, then Connor would face it.

He knew he deserve her retribution; she had every right to be angry at him, as he had been when he commanded his own Assassins that she be thrown in prison and sentence her to a life trial, not knowing of the lies August Barkwith and his allies had sown, not even knowing of the child she carries and the stress it took on her to survive on a harsh environment.

Instead, her eyes slowly glance at him and he sees, with his own brown ones, the tidal waves, the storms, the raging sea Goddess and her own cold, cruel stare, her hand on the port of a ship as she easily drags it down to the sea to be eaten… and his warm brown eyes drinks the image into his own mind and meekly offers himself as the willing sacrifice to save the ship, to let the innocent ones go as he openly sacrifices himself and jumps to the raging water, swallowed whole by the sea; the Goddess lets go of the ship and dips her hand to the waters, searching for the willing man; the man breathes out his final breath of air as she reaches his face—

Connor gazes at her, his entire face in a pained, pleading expression, and his brown eyes gleamed despite the dim room; her hand reaches up to his face, soothing his cheek. Connor sighs, letting the air he had been holding since he met her gaze. Her mouth opens to speak and says, "You should go home. I will be going with Corrine later."

And with that, her hand glided back to her side and went upstairs to join the others. Connor stood where he was and stared at the newly repaired trousers. He saw the neat sewing, its criss-crossing thread almost as flat and unnoticeable, as if it had merged with the garment. His hands traced the texture of the cloth, remembering her skillful hands with the needle and thread, how she moistened the end of the thread with her soft pink lips and how the thread easily slid through the needles head…

_And how our hands had twined together as we lay on my bed, the whole Manor was silent, save for the insects that chirped of the coming of Fall. Our legs twined around each other, looking like a knitted cross-stitch pattern, as we skillfully merge our bodies together, our fevered passion still unsated even after our previous climaxes. We knew each others pattern, each others weak, lovely spots, the little details and how to put a patch and cover a blank, cold spot with warm trails of kisses and massages. There we lay, as she gave me consent and her legs further invited me in until we knitted our bodies together. She was warm and I was full and big, and I grew afraid to move. She moved first and that was all it took. Our bodies stayed together, sewn between the pelvis and knitted in an erotic fashion around the legs. She gave me consent to keep going inside her until we finished. We did, we created a pattern, inside her, a child, the loveliest pattern we have created…_

_I should have known then, but a blind rage grew inside me as I was informed of her betrayal—a pure lie…_

_And now it's too late, and I only have my urge to knit with her what I have torn…_

Connor left the hospice with his head hung low and carrying a torn heart.

**Author's Note:**

> *The French song Arlette was singing is actually Vanessa Paradis' song, entitled Papa Paname. I know, it's a 21st century song, but I think it fits, even in an 18th century time, right?!


End file.
